


Bargain Breakfast

by Daegaer



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett, Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy - Douglas Adams
Genre: Aliens, Crossover, Demons, Gen, Humor, Travel Writing, that remarkable book The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-04-27
Updated: 2005-04-27
Packaged: 2018-03-26 05:13:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 807
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3838441
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Daegaer/pseuds/Daegaer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Crowley gets a suspicious sort of customer.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bargain Breakfast

"I want to sell my soul."

Crowley coughed and eyed his new best friend over the rim of his cup of cappuccino. The man was fairly unremarkable, with average-ish looks, average-ish height and averagely ginger hair. His clothing was a little eccentric, as was the satchel slung across his body, but eccentricity had never bothered Crowley much. There _was_ something a bit odd about his eyes, but apart from their bright blue colour, Crowley couldn't quite place what it was.

"Do you mind? I'm trying to have breakfast."

"It's lunchtime," the man said, without checking his watch.

"Well, I'm having the full English lunch, then. Sit down if you want to watch me eat."

The man sat and grinned helpfully. Crowley wasn't impressed, he had had work mates with far sharper teeth.

"So," he said through a mouthful of toast. "Why d'you want to sell your soul and how come you're sharing this fascinating desire with me?"

"You're the devil, aren't you?" the man said. "Figure of evil in many Earth religions, fire, brimstone, pitchforks, everlasting torment?"

" . . . no," Crowley said. "At least not to your first question. Who _told_ you about me?"

"I heard it around," the man said earnestly. "That's my job, see, sort of. I'm a reporter. Sort of. Well, a travel writer, anyway. My name's Ford Prefect."

"No, it's not," Crowley said, buttering another slice and scooping up a dangerous amount of baked beans.

"No, it's not," the man agreed. "But it's easier to say."

"Well, Mr Prefect," Crowley said indistinctly, washing down the beans on toast with a perfectly fried egg, "what do you want?"

"A visa," the man said.

"A visa. Run into a spot of trouble with immigration, have you?"

"Oh, no. You wouldn't believe how unobservant huma-- the government is. I want a visa for Hell."

Crowley coughed again, and stared at the madman.

"You," he said, "are a madman. Did Aziraphale put you up to this? Because if he did, you can tell him I'm sorry, and the library fines have been paid. What on earth could you possibly want a visa for Hell for?"

"An exit visa," the man said. "I want an exit visa. So's I can leave again."

"You want to sell your soul for an exit visa," Crowley said carefully. "I can see you haven't given much thought to how this sort of thing works. The whole soul-selling gets you _in_ , you see. _Nothing_ gets you out. Well, nothing that's due to be repeated any time soon, anyway. Why do you want to go to Hell?"

"I told you," the man said patiently and cheerfully. "I'm a travel writer. I want to do a feature on it for the _Guide_. What restaurants in Dis would you recommend?"

"You're insane. I don't like dealing with nutcases, there's always some extradition order comes through at the last minute. Give me your hand."

The man obligingly held out his hand, and Crowley wrapped his fingers round the man's wrist. If this was one of the angel's little jokes, he thought, he wasn't going to be amused. A fellow couldn't be expected to deal with jokes before breakfast. He frowned at the odd, too-fast rhythm of the man's pulse, and frowned more deeply as he concentrated.

"What's wrong with your soul?" he asked.

"Nothing," the man said, smiling even more broadly.

He hadn't blinked once, Crowley realised. It was a blessed sting operation, was what it was, he realised. Which side, which side? It was probably safest to play this thing straight. Heaven could hardly blame him for doing his job, Hell couldn't blame him for not accepting dubious credit. He let go of the wrist and sat back, aiming for stern impassivity.

"There's something wrong with it, all right. It's certainly not standard issue. I don't take funny money, Mr Prefect. Why don't you come back when you've something to bargain with?"

"Oh, well," the man said, standing up. "I was hoping you weren't going to notice so soon, and then I'd get out on a technicality, you see. I suppose I'll just have to write something heart-warming about human mating rituals again for this month. At least the research is interesting."

_Yeah, you bastard,_ Crowley thought. _I knew you weren't kosher_. "Good luck with that," he said, and watched the man swipe the last individual packet of marmalade and the salt cellar, tucking them into his satchel. He snorted with amusement as the last piece of toast and the single carnation in its little vase followed. The man turned to go, and Crowley held up a hand.

"Mr Prefect," he said. "Just one thing. There are no restaurants in Dis. It would have been a wasted trip."

"Pity," the man said. "Mating rituals it is, then."

Crowley watched him go. He'd forgotten how much he hated auditors.


End file.
